Pills on a Plane

Before I begin my story, I would like to say a few things. First off, Nate, stop calling me and leaving sexy little propositions on my answering machine, I finally have my own column. I’ll see you in the spring, don’t forget the anal lube.

Second, I don’t know why I didn’t start this thing months ago. Maybe I was scared that people wouldn’t think my writing is funny. Maybe I am lazy. Maybe my advanced case of syphilis has branched from inside of my penis all the way up into my brain and I am incapable of making rational decisions.

Whatever the reason, here I am. I hope that you all enjoy what I have to say here at Points in Case, and if you don’t, stick out your tongue and lick the poopy insides of my asshole. Now, onto the story…

“I was naked. There were no sheets on my bed. I was covered in piss.”

Pills on a Plane

My name is Michael Curtiss, and I am afraid of flying. This is a recent fear of mine, something I developed no earlier than six months ago. I often relate this fear of flying with my love for “dick sucking sluts”, which leads to an unlikely mix of emotions when entering an airport.

I had just recently finished up with finals, and the time was rapidly approaching when I would have to board the hideous, winged, steel death traps known as “airplanes.” I hate them. Seriously, how does being enclosed in a metal box 30,000 ft in the air with no escape not make you want to shit in your hand and slap it all over the person next to you?

I was getting really nervous two days before I was to depart, and decided to take a trip to the doctor to get some anti-anxiety drugs. They prescribed me Xanax. This drug has popular recreational uses among the underachieving 18-22 year old party sluts. Because if you can’t remember it, it didn’t happen, right?

I was on edge for the next two days, and got increasingly worse when I arrived at the airport. I bought a Dr. Pepper, found my gate, and took a seat in the terminal next to a nice looking family. Immediately, I started fidgeting like Michael J. Fox trying to open a Snickers. The father of the family eyed me suspiciously.

Around 45 minutes before liftoff, I decided to take my drugs. I remember my doctor telling me to take one pill, but if I was really nervous, to take two. Okay doc, four it is. I washed these down with my flat Dr. Pepper and continued to wait.

Finally, a lady’s voice came over the gate speakers above me: “Now boarding steel death fuck-box, flight number 666. You will die a horrible fiery death. Thank you.” Well, that’s what I heard at least. I’m sure she said something much worse.

With that, I rose from my seat and made my way toward the plane. Butt cheeks firmly clamped together, I wobbled on, took a seat, and prayed that my medication would kick in before takeoff.

30 minutes went bye, and I felt nothing. The plane rotated into place, and we prepared for takeoff. A little siren went off in my head. I reached down into my bag and grabbed another Xanax and chewed it up. Apparently, if you chew these things, they take effect more rapidly. Apparently.

We ascended into the blue, hellish oblivion and I could not move—not from the drugs, I was just that petrified. I was literally afraid any sudden movement would throw off the balance of the plane, and we would plummet.

The plane continued on reasonably steady, and I almost relaxed for a few minutes. Then, just as I had begun to let my guard down, a violent bolt of turbulence shook the entire plane. I jumped into my bag again and popped two more Xanax. Ladies and gentlemen, that makes a grand total of seven. I was sure to pass out now.

The plane landed 2 hours and 32 minutes after takeoff, and I still hadn’t felt a fucking thing from the medicine. Would it kick in when I least expected it? Did the doctor fuck me over with a placebo? These thoughts quickly left my head as I saw my parents walking up to the gate to meet me. We left the airport, and my fears of flying were quickly washed away with the smell of home on the holidays and a nice fat plate of home cooked goodness.

Around 6pm, I gave my buddy Nick a call and we headed out. We arrived at our friend James’ house, where a bottle of rum and a case of beer awaited us. Since it was my first night back and I wanted to get drunk, we decided that Nick should drive us home later.

The shot glasses came out, and we all took seats around the kitchen counter. I filled mine up completely so that the rum formed a bubble a few millimeters above the rim of the glass. I gave a toast to my friends, and said how happy I was to be home. I drained the shot, and slammed it on the counter.

Everything went blank.

My eyes slowly opened to the newly risen sun shining in through my window. I stretched out and felt strangely at peace. As I stretched, I grazed the right side of my face. OUCH.

A deep pain reverberated through my cheek, and I sat straight up. I moved my teeth around and something felt hard and grainy, like sand. I put my finger in my mouth to figure out what was in there, only to pull out numerous white chunks. I reached farther into the back of my mouth towards the source of the ever-growing pain.

Suddenly, my finger prodded a sharpened hunk of enamel where one of my molars used to be. The shit that I was pulling out of my mouth was in fact, chunks of tooth. Then, all at once, like some sort of epiphany, I took in all of my surroundings.

At first, I was shocked. I really didn’t know what to do. I tried my hardest to remember what had happened the previous night… but nothing. I looked at the clock to my left, and it read 6:34 A.M. It was very early, but I had to call Nick and find out what had happened.

Me: Hey dude, what’s up?
Nick: Whatta fuck? Why are you calling?!
Me: Dude, what happened last night? I seriously have no idea.
Nick: You got fucking wasted and went nuts. I wanted to hit you in the face.
Me: That better not be why my tooth is missing. Did you hit me in the face?!
Nick: Hahaha, you’re missing a tooth?! Serves you right.
Me: Did you hit me in the face asshole?!
Nick: No man, I’ll tell you about it later.
Me: Fine, bye.

This conversation didn’t exactly quench my thirst for knowledge of the previous night’s activities. I called James, another friend of mine, to see if he could help me out.

Me: Dude, what happened last night.
James: I… I don’t… really know….
Me: Shit, go back to sleep.
James: Did we hang out?

It was obvious James had as good a time as I did the night before. Or, as bad a time. I hadn’t really decided yet. I still needed to find more answers.

I inspected my room with no clear results. There was only evidence of two thing I was positive happened: I got really drunk and fell around all over the place, and I pissed the bed. It was pretty ridiculous to see all of my bed linen in the shower with the door closed. Apparently, I thought it was a really good idea to turn the shower on all over this stuff. I’m so smart.

I heard my mom making breakfast out in the kitchen. I put some clothes on, and stumbled out into the kitchen. She looked at me, rolled her eyes and looked away.

Me: What was that about?
Mom: Don’t play dumb.
Me: What are you talking about?
Mom: You seriously don’t remember?
Me: No!

She went on to tell me that I had stumbled into the house at 9pm the night before, and asked her and my sister why they were so stupid because they were still awake. My sister laughed, and my mom put me in my room.

Fast forward to 11 at night: My mom came to check on me in my room to make sure I was okay. No sign. She ran outside and found me in the driveway in my boxers. She yelled at me, and I ran back into my room giggling like a stupid whore.

She slept in the living room that night so as to have a clear shot of my door to make sure I didn’t go out again. I didn’t leave my room, but she said she heard me throwing myself around my room laughing.

Imagine this: Me. In my room. By myself. Possibly naked. Jumping around and laughing. By myself. Most likely naked.

I don’t have a TV, computer or radio in there, so it’s not like there was anything for me to laugh at. I was just having a great time with my friend Mr. Xanax.

Eventually I talked to Nick and he said pretty much what I expected: I was being a crazed maniac while he was driving, jerking the wheel left and right out of his hands and singing Willie Nelson as loud as I could.

James said he doesn’t remember us ever coming over. He only remembers some people knocking at his door and answering the door telling them to fuck off. He later found out that he had called like ten people over, passed out, and then thought he had to be at work in like 30 minutes when they arrived. Good stuff.

All in all, nothing exceedingly outrageous happened that night. I stayed up with my mom in the morning, and helped her around the house to apologize. Also, I just got my tooth capped. It still hurts like a bastard.

I, for one, will never take Xanax again. That’s really not my thing. I can be crazy enough on my own; I don’t need something like that to facilitate it. That is, unless I’m running short on material for my column.

This has happened to me so many times that while reading I was reminded of the cloudy apprehension and "I Must Know!" mentality. You could have won fifty grand in Vegas or killed your girlfirend for all you know. Unfortunately you recieve the anti-climatic news that you simply became belligerent, offended every soul in the adjacent area, broke a few valuables, and passed out.

Occasionally the consequences of one's actions are more serious than torn clothes, a broken lamp, and temporary amnesia. For example, your's truly once checked himself into a nice little efficiency room at the county jail. It was equipped with such amenities as a toilet/water-fountain to vomit and rehydrate with, and a call box to a 24/7 front desk attendant (who requests to be called deputy) to inquire the reason for your visit and how much it will cost to "check out."

*Did You Know?*
Benzodiazepines may cause significant motor-skill dysfunction and in many states operation of a motor-vehicle while taking them may constitute Driving While Impaired or a similar criminal charge.

*Did You Know?*
Flunitrazepam (formerly marketed as Rophynol) is a member of the benzodiazepine family which is more commonly referred to as "Roofies." In recent years flunitrazepam has gained the reputation as a "date rape" drug.

My solution for the fear of flying is to get completely loaded before takeoff, or to take narcotic pain killers. The only down side to that is that when you're on Percocet, you really shouldn't drink that night (which sucks if you're flying home)...

But lemme tell you, I don't fly sober, and I don't rent cars when I do get to my destination until the next day!

8 xanax and you should've been whacked... I take 4 sometimes when I'm having a stressful day at the office, and then the boss says I've got to take a cab home (I have a company vehicle), and I look like I'm all loopy and groggy.

This was one of the few things I've read on here that actually made me laugh out loud more than once and while alone. I'm scared of flying too and I'm probably going on my first EVER plane for spring break this year. I'm really thinking about getting some pills to calm myself and after reading this I'm pretty sure I will. Can't wait to read more from you!